


Sand

by Sophia_Bee



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 11:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2386604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee





	Sand

They don’t touch the way lovers touch. His hand never rests gently on the center of her back. She never plays with his fingers. His arm never wraps around her waist, pulling her tightly into his side. They don’t gaze into to each other’s eyes endlessly. That’s just not ‘them’.

What she thinks of most when she’s with him is sand.

The way she finds it in her shoes days later. She pours it out onto her palm and rubs it between her fingers and blushes at the way it feels against her skin. The gritty feel as she washes it out of her hair, closing her eyes and lifting her head to let the stream of water run over her face and remembering how his lips felt against hers.

The way he’d whispered ‘baby’ against her neck made her wonder if that was the same thing he’d called Lilly, then her mouth fell open and all thoughts slipped away with the slip of his fingers on her clit.

The beach used to be small silver flasks of booze sipped around the coals of a campfire. She could remember how Duncan used to take off his jacket and slip it around her shoulders just before she started to shiver from the chill. And she’d tilt her head back and smile up at him. And he’d bend his head and kiss her so sweetly she thought she might die.

Everything had been secret notes in homeroom and corsages for prom and one milkshake, two straws and touching the way lovers touched with Duncan. It had felt grown-up but now she knew it was the kind of puppy love every sixteen year old should experience at least once.

He was different. His anger matched her pain as he fingers slipped insider her and she felt everything grow swollen and tight and her head fell back against his chest, her hands trying to find some bare skin to touch and she wished he would kiss her again.

Did she come that night Duncan fucked her in the guest room? Did her body tighten and everything lose focus because of his touch? Did he say her name between kisses? Sometimes she wished she could actually remember her first time because she knows it would be as sweet as she’d always imagined.

Instead she remembers how he pushed her pants down her hips, his hands impatient as he pulled them off and dropped them in the sand. She’d wanted to tell him this was the first time she’d remember as she watched him kneeling in front of her, unzipping his pants, fumbling with the condom, and she saw that he was hard. She looked away, staring up at the clear night sky, listening to the sound of waves slipping across the sand, the distant shouts of a crowd gathered round a bonfire further down the beach. Then he was lying between her legs and pushing her knees up and her brain was defeated by her body’s need to be fucked. Even if she didn’t remember her first time, her body did.

She’d buried her face in his shoulder when she came; muffling her cries in the cotton of his t-shirt, feeling tears wet her cheeks. And he’d kissed her hard before rolling off her, muttering something unintelligible between gasps, leaving her lying there, still shaking in his aftermath.

They don’t touch like lovers. There was no cuddling afterward, no sweet nothings whispered in her ear, no lazy hand stroking her arm, no feel of his head on her shoulder, no fingers in her hair.

Sex on the beach. She’d always thought the drink was stupid, made for teenagers to blush and giggle over, but the actual event was pretty fucking fine with her. He dropped her off at her apartment that night, not saying anything as they sat outside in his car but glancing over at her in a way that made everything start to melt again. And she knew this wasn’t the beginning or the ending. It was somewhere in the middle of their story.

They ignore each other at school. There will be no declarations this time, no parties where she feels his damp palm grip hers and she wonders why his heart is beating to fast as he stares across the room at his father. She’s been fully educated when it comes to Logan and his father and doesn’t need to learn more than the feel of the scars on his back.

So they ignore each other because it would be too weird for them and everyone else, passing each other in the hall with barely a glance, never daring to get too close. Except for the one time he catches her alone outside the girl’s locker room and pushes her against the wall and his hand slips under her shirt as his tongue slips into her mouth. Then he is gone, leaving her panting and dizzy and Meg walks out the door of the locker room and asks if she’s feeling okay, and Veronica manages to lie that she’s feeling a little sick.

Lovesick. She laughs at the thought. Because whatever this is, she knows it’s not love. At least that’s the sweet fairy tale she tells herself as she gazes out the windows during AP English, imagining the feel of his fingers against her thigh.

Neither of them makes plans but somehow they end up meeting at the beach again that night, and she stifles a gasp when he takes her hand because her whole body feels electric with anticipation. They find a darkened corner of the beach, just around the bend from the picnic tables and Veronica takes her revenge on his mouth as her hands slip inside his pants. That night there’s more sand to wash out of her hair and her clothes. And she knows she’ll wake up with his face tattooed on her brain in the morning, a smile on her lips as she remembers the way his jaw went slack and his eyes darkened just before he came. Because there are some things even she isn’t able to control.

There’s something about the sand. It’s so soft and warm against her back as he lowers her down, his mouth making its way down her neck, his teeth scraping across her collarbone and she can’t think about anything except they way his fingers feel against her skin. Yet she can never get it out of her shoes and she hates the feeling of it between her toes. It sticks in her hair and on her skin. It gets in her mouth and she can feel the grit between her teeth.

She doesn’t ask where they are going. She doesn’t want to know. As long as there’s the beach and sand and the sound of waves drowned out as he moans her name, it feels like enough for both of them. And when they’re done and he’s brushing the sand off his pants, she sits at the edge of the ocean, his jacket wrapped around her shoulders, wind blowing through her hair, looking into the darkness with only his touch to pull her back.


End file.
